


Near and Close

by Xyriath



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thirteenth day of every fourth month, Emperor Ling Yao vanishes from court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near and Close

The thirteenth day of every fourth month, Emperor Ling Yao vanishes from court.

This caused a panic amongst His Imperial Highness’s ministers the first time it happened.  He gave no warning of this absence, and the prevailing theory was his kidnapping until one of them pointed out that his bodyguard was absent as well and the Emperor did tend towards eccentricity.  They put out the word amongst the populace that the Emperor had secluded himself for that day to meditate on the future of the country and seek enlightened wisdom and continued their search quietly.

The morning after, they found him waking from his bed as if nothing had happened.

(Four months later, of course, it happened again.)

The Emperor’s ministers have mostly grown used to it by now, and their panic when it happens has mostly subsided and not caused any more injuries—any at all, His Imperial Majesty would argue; that one minister’s apoplexy had been a long time coming with the level of disregard for his health.  Besides, he had recovered quite nicely.

The nobility, of course, don’t believe the “meditation” story for a second, and inquiries into the matter, no matter how subtle or pleading, have proven fruitless.  Even the Emperor’s honored mother appears clueless on the matter; undoubtedly canny as the woman is, on this matter at least, she seems to be truthful.  His bodyguard, of course, remains silent as ever.

As such, it has become something of a mystery, almost a game, at the Xingese court, with betting pools and guesses and even occasional attempts at spying that are easily foiled, though it doesn’t stop them from trying.

His Imperial Majesty dances around them all with an irreverence that belies his skill in the matter.

—

The thirteenth day of the eighth month of the fourth year of Emperor Ling Yao’s reign, he wakes, stretches, and yawns, turning to his sleeping partner and watching her for a few moments, smiling softly, before he nudges her awake.

“We had probably get a move on,” he murmurs, still smiling indulgently as she blinks awake, black hair sticking out everywhere.  “We’ll be swarmed by the curious pretty soon.”

Lan Fan groans and covers her face with the covers.  He laughs softly; she hates getting up in the mornings even worse than he does.

It takes some tickling—which earns him some smacking—to get her up and moving, and she sighs, dressing in simple clothes, Ling doing the same.  He’s always impressed, how clothing them both in servant’s attire manages to deflect so much attention, keeping them concealed at a distance.

Ling steps over to the rug at the foot of their bed, tugging it away to reveal a plain stone floor.  He stands back, watching Lan Fan eagerly.

Fishing out a piece of chalk, she slowly draws out a circle, one that she had learned from Mei.  As she presses her fingers to it, he beams, watching the faint glow as the floor slowly caves away below her.

“You’re getting good!” he whispers cheerfully, and she hops down, scouting out the tunnel before calling out, “All clear!”  He hops down after her, and as she turns to close it back up, beams.  “Mei would be proud!”

“Yes, well,” Lan Fan sighs, looking for all the world like a poor, put-upon soul, so very inconvenienced by her new skills.  “I’ve never met a harder taskmistress.  She wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He laughs softly, slinging his arm around her shoulder.  “And i’m the one to benefit from it.  Could you get any more perfect, Lan Fan?”

She turns, fixing him with a glare and a grimace that makes her the most feared woman in Xing.  He only grins.

“Too good for this world,” she mutters, turning to look ahead of them, trudging through the tunnel.  “Too good for a world where the time before dawn exists.”

—

A few alkahestry transmutations later, they slip out of a manhole cover into the storeroom of one of Xing’s many guard stations.  The guards stationed here know better than to ask any questions, not at the official paperwork Ling presents them when they step out of the door, and they wave the two along and resume their posts.

The sun has already risen above the horizon by the time they make their way west, treading a familiar path along the outskirts of the city.  As planned, no one recognizes them, and Ling even struts a little, dancing ahead and turning to see if he can coax a smile from Lan Fan.  He doesn’t, but his near-collision with a pair of oxen and a farmer’s cranky curses does, and he considers it an accomplished mission regardless.

They eventually reach a brick building, well-kept and tucked out of the way, and stepped inside.  The older woman seated at the workbench whirled, pushing her goggles up onto her forehead.

“You’re late,” she sighs, standing and gesturing for them to follow.

“Your fault,” Ling mutters over to Lan Fan with a smirk, and she glares.  “If you would get up earlier—“

“Well if you wouldn’t keep me up so late—“

“Shirt off, up on the table,” the other woman interrupts, and Ling’s smirk grows.

“My favorite part,” he whispers to her, and for his trouble, she chucks her shirt straight into his face after she draws it off, her sarashi preventing him from seeing anything particularly untoward.

“Goodness,” the woman mutters, lifting Lan Fan’s automail arm and peering at it.  “You really are hard on this, aren’t you?”

“I try not to be!” she protests, twisting her head to see what the woman is “tsk”-ing at, and winces as she pulls a rivet loose.

“What did you do, punch down a brick wall?”

“Wooden door,” Lan Fan muttered, turning away.  “Maybe a couple of times.  There’s this group who’s been—“

“Don’t even start.”  The woman chucks the rivet over into a bucket, then reaches up to the shoulder joint.  “It shouldn’t take me too long to fix.  Maybe a few hours.”  She presses at it, working the latches off to free the limb, eventually tugging it free.  “As always, you’re welcome to wait upstairs.  You know you’re safe here.”

Lan Fan hops off of the table, wobbling dangerously, and Ling’s arm darts out to take hers, smiling softly as he heads towards the stairs.

—

“You don’t have to come, you know.”

Ling glances down, Lan Fan’s soft hair slipping between his fingers.  He has taken down her bun, letting the hair spread across his lap as she lay down on the couch, remaining arm dangling down onto the floor.

“I know,” he sing-songs, tucking a bang behind her ear.  “But knowing me, I’d get myself into some stupid danger, and then you wouldn’t be around to save me from it—“

“You have other bodyguards, you know.”

“But none as skilled as you.  And then when something bad happened, you’d blame yourself, and mope insufferably about for weeks—“

“I do not mope!”

“—And really, I’d just rather save myself the trouble.”  He chuckles, satisfied with his own explanation even as Lan Fan rolls her eyes, then leans back.  He catches her eyeing him, clearly not satisfied with his answer, but only shrugs.  Some truths are better left unspoken.

—

“You know,” the mechanic murmurs as she eyes the tuned up arm, Lan Fan watching impatiently, “you were a lot less hard on this than I’d have expected.  It seems you’re finally starting to learn how to treat this properly, eh?”

“Well, actually—“  Ling chokes off when Lan Fan elbows him in the ribs, glowering out of the corner of her eye.  He can read the expression loud and clear: tell her and you die.  He clears his throat.  Why Lan Fan wouldn’t want to brag that, at the elder Elric’s suggestion, she had picked up alkahestry to do minor tuneups on her automail, Ling has no idea.  He finds it to be admirable and impressive, even moreso than everything else she usually does, which is a feat in and of itself.  “Yes, yes she has.”

Lan Fan lies back on the worktable when indicated, setting her jaw.  Ling doesn’t know which one of the two of them hate this part more, and he reaches out to take her right hand.

Luckily, they have done this enough times before that it’s over quickly: while Lan Fan isn’t expecting it, before she has time to psych herself up and dread it even more, the mechanic thrusts the arm into the port.

Lan Fan screams then, behind her clenched teeth, and arches her back, squeezing Ling’s fingers to within an inch of falling off.  She looks so shocked that Ling doesn’t even have the heart to make the comment that floats to the tip of his tongue, that he’ll make her do that in a way she enjoys later.  While Ling would have appreciated such a joke, he doesn’t think Lan Fan will.  He can learn.  For her.

But it’s over in a moment, her chest heaving, limbs trembling.  He wonders if it’s like losing the arm all over again, when it comes out and goes back on, but he’s never had it in him to ask.

And he sits there, doing everything he can, reaching out to brush the hair out of her face, tugging her hand in to kiss the back of her knuckles.

—

The fourteenth day of the eighth month of the fourth year of Emperor Ling Yao’s reign, he wakes hours after the sun, stretching, yawning, and turning onto his side.

He knows that their day will begin soon, that he has a million and one things to take care of before breakfast, but he enjoys these small, quiet moments while he has them.

He lifts his arm, reaching out, and she scoots closer in her sleep, nestling under it.  He holds her tightly, wanting her to have someone looking after her, even if it’s only for the briefest of those moments.


End file.
